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December 27, 2021

Fuck, Marry, Kill

Dia Roth

I arm wrestle Keanu Reeves

for bragging rights and the keys to his Camaro: top down and pretty sexy, don’t you think? I’m gonna drive this baby everywhere because it smells like freedom (yeah, I smelled it): gasoline and corn nuts, leather hot in the afternoon sun—was it the afternoon sun that killed Icarus?—and it really does smell good. But now I see his jean jacket and I want that too, so I say double or nothing. Keanu wants to know what he gets if he wins and I lose, which is a fair question, I suppose. I dig in my pocket for the Virgin Mary figurine that I take with me everywhere, say she’ll watch over you but he doesn’t believe in all that, wants something else, like the ocean, which isn’t really mine to give. I agree anyway, praying that Mary will watch over me. Plus you have to answer one question he adds. I shrug. What’s a question gonna do, kill me? With elbows glued to the table, our hands lock. Mother Mary wants me to win, and I aim to please. I try to resist Keanu’s pressure, but it’s too much and my wrist collapses. I’m on the hook now and all he wants to know—brow crumpled like he’s the one facing defeat—is are you sorry? I don’t want to admit that my answer to this question has been yes for so long. I’ll go the rest of my life with an ocean hanging over my head. He watches as I snag his keys off the table and race for the car. I roar the ignition and step on it. We lock eyes. Forgive me.


Captain America asks me to wash out his mouth with soap

but I decline because, honestly, I like him filthy. Would rather peel uniform from rubble-dusted skin, gingerly separate fabric from wound where they’re bound by blood, and lick up salt from the sulphured mess. I can’t bear to see the blood on his hands—I need him unclean—so I ask him to try some dirty talk, but watch his skin flush hot through the film of grime on his face when he says you’re so sexy. I raise an eyebrow. Not nasty enough, all that blood a reminder I still can’t stomach. He tries again, says, you’re a dirty little slut, and I smile because yes, finally, that’s so much better.


Poem in which Brad Pitt has already fallen from grace

he chews on bar nuts and begs me
to peg him from behind, says 
it’s been so long
since anyone saw me for me, 

i roll my eyes at this
i’m not here to mend
anyone’s broken wings

i say ok but only if we do it
in a turquoise 1966 Ford Thunderbird 
with white leather interior
i want to see any and all
fluids that result from our union
smeared on the seats 

plus i want it to happen
in the weightless moments 
between driving off a cliff
and landing deep
in a canyon dead or gravely injured
but i bet you get
this kind of request a lot 

he tells me people
are more into watching
him eat or roleplaying
Ocean’s Eleven not so much 
cars off cliffs
he wasn’t even in
that part of the movie and
i see his point 
but i like what i like

he asks why i swiped right 
and i tell him honestly 
that i recognized the leather miniskirt 
in his profile photo from 
the 2004 blockbuster Troy in which
he plays the mighty Achilles
half man half god heartbroken
over the death of his dear Patroclus

in my fantasy he bends 
over the front seat and
flips up flaps of heavy leather 
to reveal oiled 
shining ass-cheeks

i don’t tell him 
about the power i want
to wield
over his body
(mostly symbolic)

or my biggest fear:
that he’ll manage
to ruin me

his jaw flexes 
around more bar nuts
should we get out of here? i nod 
but get up to use the bathroom first

he stands when i do
ah, what a gentleman
i grab a handful of ass 
as i walk past
but sneak out the back

in the parking lot 
i get hot just watching
the flashing tail lights 
of my beige 2001 Honda Accord
unlocked from afar